Stubborn Love
by Svenja The Strange
Summary: The five times John thinks he hates Sherlock and the one time he notices he really doesn't. Mild Johnlock. M for language. Now turning into a collection of Oneshots inspired by songs!
1. Stubborn Love

**Discalimer: **Nope, nothing's mine.I'm making no money with this.

**Note:** Just a little something I wrote as exercise when I was struggling with writers block. Inspired by the title of the song "Subborn Love" by the Lumineers.

**Summary:** The five times John hates Sherlock and the one time he notices he really doesn't.

**Stubborn Love**

**Potato Peeler**

Sometimes John wonders, he really does. He wonders what kind of hidden childhood trauma, what deep set psychological condition is responsible for his growing into a man so morbidly masochistic as to voluntarily be living with Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes.

It has been a _shit_ day, quite frankly. One of _those_ days, when it seemed like every elderly gentleman in all of London has decided to come in for an unscheduled prostate exam ("You know, doctor, at my age you can never be too careful.") and entire classes of kindergartens around town seem to have caught the stomach flu at once.

_Please God, let the evening pass in blissful, case-less peace!_ John is not a religious man, but it certainly can't hurt to at least _try_ at the off chance that someone or something is actually listening. _Please, a hot shower, a nice cuppa and – good Lord – some food!_ His stomach gives a menacing lions' roar at the thought of the potato gratin he is planning on preparing for himself (and Sherlock, if today miraculously falls on one of the rare occasions that the detective is inclined to listen to his bodily needs) for dinner later.

It is out of this very mood that John hates Sherlock, positively _detests _him from the depth of his heart, when he enters the hazy atmosphere of their shared flat and finds the tall detective already occupying the kitchen, bend over what is probably the most disgusting pursuit – an experiment of doubtlessly vital importance – that John has ever seen. And he was at war in Afghanistan. As a doctor. He has seen _things_.

"That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen." He states his thoughts flatly, not finding in him the strength for a temper tantrum. Not even when he notices the potato peeler, the one instrument vital to the realization of his dinner plans already put to use - a use ruling out preparing food with it ever, _ever_ again.

"Yet." He adds, defeated.

The detective does not even bother to raise his mess of dark curls in order to throw John a greeting glance. Instead, he gasps in exasperation, throwing the severed foot he has been working on in the sink (to the others) with a frazzled gesture and grabs a fresh one. With surgical precision he puts the potato peeler to the foots' heel and begins, slowly, carefully, to peel off the horned skin there.

"Not hungry." He comments, with no relation to Johns former complaining whatsoever.

Sometimes John wonders, he does. He wonders quietly, a menu of a Chinese delivery service in hands.

**The Lions' Den**

John can't believe he is doing this. He can't bloody well _believe_ it. It's barmy, absolutely daft. All his eye and Betty Martin - the way he is willing to surrender to Sherlocks every whim and crazy idea. He is a former army soldier, for Gods' sake. He has ranked leading positions, giving orders to other people, enjoying the privilege to boss _them_ around at _his own_ every whim and crazy idea. Why ever he has agreed to _this_ is so much beyond his understanding, he wouldn't be surprised if someone would approach him with the intent of writing a psychological study on this particular inconsistency in character when it comes to his relationship with the world's only consulting detective. _God knows_ there are more.

"I can't even begin to say how stupid this idea is." John whispers for about the tenth time throughout the past minutes. His animal attendants' uniform is scratchy and smelly and just a little too small. It pinches in all the crucially wrong places. He probably shouldn't complain though – it is wondrous enough Sherlock had two of them hidden somewhere in his seemingly bottomless wardrobe for cunning disguises. Without this get up they would probably already be sharing the coziness of the backseat of Lestrades official car, listening to a lecture on "going too far" or "crossing lines" or "not getting you out of the trouble next time, no matter how important the case".

"Nonchalance, John." Sherlock duns quietly. To be fair, the detective has informed him on the importance of blending in perfectly, of looking like they belong, of wearing the barmy uniform with a busy nonchalance that says "I have work to do. None of your business" before and John has agreed – in retrospect, foolishly agreed – to play along. Of course the _ruddy_ boilersuit sort of thing looks not half bad on Sherlocks wild-cat-like body. No trouble displaying nonchalance then, John thinks, grudgingly.

Already he can smell the distinct odour of the predators enclosures. The harsh, musky stench of huge cats ripping up raw meat and prowling small cages slowly. _Oh god_, at this point he already half hopes their cover will blow and someone will stop them. _Sod_ the case, _sod_ solving it. He just wants to _not_ have to go into the lions preserves.

As Sherlock murmurs "Don't dawdle!" and pushes John through a door that specifically forbids non-staff members to enter (DANGER! Fierce Animals - Sherlock has probably nicked the key god knows where), John thinks he is very the likely only man in the world with a flat mate, partner in solving crimes and best friend he absolutely _hates _sometimes.

He would beard the lions' den for him without question, – _literally_ – however whimsical the bloody reason, would follow him everywhere, at every time, but sometimes he still hates the bastard.

**A Little Party**

_A little Party never killed nobody_.

The rich baritone voice keeps repeating the sentence in his head, a slightly distorted caricature of his usual, detached sound. Well, John thinks, maybe not killed in the classical sense of the word, but certainly turned him into the nearest thing to a zombie there probably is. And a zombie, though not all stiff and unmoving, is certainly not entirely _alive_ either.

Ever since waking up with a rebellious stomach, the taste of dead vermin in his mouth, sticky hair and the worlds' most blinding headache John is pretty damn convinced that he has been turned into a zombie. He cannot seem to gain full control over his body, for example. Also, his ability to form coherent words as well as the capability to use his head for anything else than carrying it around on his shoulders - which is hard enough - seems entirely lost to him. Additionally, he finds himself somewhat obsessed with the thought of brains. Well, not brains in general. One particular brain, to be precise. A very big one. A very brilliant one. A brain he very much wishes to blow out with a shot gun for making him get completely slaughtered in the middle of the _fucking_ week against his own better judgment and against his outspoken protest.

"Come on John, a little party never killed nobody." The detective has claimed, quoting the ridiculous song that was blaring deafeningly over the crowd of dancing people with a condescending smirk and a raise of his eyebrow.

"I have to get up early in the morning." John has protested, futile. The smiting logic of Sherlock Holmes struck his objections down and smashed them to pieces on the dance floor.

"Yes, but you are a horrible actor and in order to get close to our murder suspect we both need to appear utterly drunk."

_Besides, you might as well enjoy yourself, old friend. You get out for a drink and a round on the dance floor seldom enough_, the uruly vicious little voice in Johns head has whispered into his ear. The same bloody voice must have been responsible for convincing him that moving in with Sherlock was a good idea.

Remembering said little voice, John could in all honesty not entirely and solely blame Sherlock for his current condition (he could have skipped the last two beers, after all), but chooses to concentrate his hate on the detective and his unorthodox undercover investigation methods anyway. Somehow, they always seem to end up with John getting drunk and one day, he swears, he will get revenge.

**Really Hard**

In retrospect, the hollow thudding and the sound of glass shattering into a thousand pieces should probably have been a warning to John rather than a motivation to spurt up the narrow stairwell of 221b faster, his date in tow. He _knows_, has learned the iron hard way, the granite way even, that bringing a date home when Sherlock is loitering around the flat is doomed to end in a terrible disaster. He _knows_ that rumbling and lumbering are never, _ever_ good signs and probably mean that the selfish detective has turned the place into an uninhabitable lab for his dotty experiments or usually explosive outbursts of boredom relief, rendering the flat unfit to bring up any kind of visitor. He _knows_ perfectly well all of this signals the immediate evacuation of whatever girl he has planned on bringing upstairs. Yes, he _knows_. Why on earth his concern for the self-destructively smart bugger is getting the upper hand nonetheless every _bloody_ time, causing John to heartlessly abandon the girl at his side and rush to Sherlocks help, is still something of a mystery to him. He isn't even in any real danger most of the time.

Something else that John realizes in retrospect is that he should probably have expected her reaction to the sight that unfurls in front them as soon as she enters the living room, several moments after John does. There is a tall, dark haired man with a blood dripping halberd standing in front of her after all, looking nothing short of stark raving mad. Also, there is the unmoving, bloodied body of another man lying directly in front of her feet. It is – John comes to the conclusion later that night – quite understandable that she should head out of the door with a hysterical shriek, screaming something about "calling the police" and "bloody maniacs".

"Please do, and specifically ask for Detective Inspector Graham Lestrade!" Sherlock calls after her calmly.

"Greg." John corrects, not even taking the time to wonder when on earth he became so used to events like this, that correcting Sherlock is really the first thing to say he goes for. The detective skates over the statement and tosses the halberd away noisily.

"Sherlock, what the fuck happened here? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine." Sherlock waves dismissively. Then, somewhat grumpy "The stupid idiot really though he could frighten me with a hired killer. _Boring_." He wipes his bloody hands on his shirt and gives the body on the floor a deprecating shove with his elegant foot.

"Is _he_ hurt? You did not kill him, did you? He's bleeding." Some day one of this little fights with assassins hired to end the consulting detectives life and thereby his brilliant deductions and crime solving is going to get someone killed (which is kind of the point). _Hopefully not Sherlock_, John thinks, _but preferably no one at all_. He can only imagine the awkward trouble with the police that would cause them.

"Just scratched him a little." Sherlock waves the incident away and is already halfway over to his microscope, undoubtedly with the intention of reburying himself in the investigation he was caught up in when the attacker disturbed his work. "Just leave him. He will be out for some more hours. We can deal with him later. Right now I have more pressing issues that demand my attention."

"Um, one more question." That earns him a nasty glare, but he has to ask. "Where did the halberd come from?"

"Oh, really John. Do keep up!" Sherlock sighs. Then, because the adrenaline from the fight has obviously left him in high spirits, Sherlock asks in a voice that makes it clear he is more making what he knows John to deem polite conversation than being actually interested: "How was your date? She looked more attractive than your usual ones, measured on the scale of average modern beauty ideals. Why did she leave so early? Usually you bring them back here for a glass of middle priced wine and then go up to your room and…"

"No. Stop. Let it go." John interrupts fretfully and lets his head sink to his chest in the attempt to control his anger. It can be really, _really _hard to like Sherlock Holmes at times. _Really _hard.

**Tasty**

"What's this?" John asks suspiciously as Sherlock puts down a steaming hot liquid in Johns favourite mug on the coffee table next to him one night, as John is typing away sedulously on his computer. It surely looks like tea, smells like tea… Could be _anything_. With Sherlock you never know.

"I have to inform you that your skills of observation appear to have reached a new low, John." Sherlock takes a sip of his own cup, and returns to staring at the telly in disgust, bridging the bottomless abyss called boredom that usually lurks between cases with his new found obsession of solving the cases on TV crime scenes within seconds and then complaining noisily that the ending of the respective episodes never seems to make any sense.

"Yes, thank you. I _see _what it is. _Smell_ it too." John says patiently. "After the Baskerville incident I'm just a little suspicious, though."

Sherlocks exasperated huff cuts him short. "Oh, do let that go, will you? It was in the name of science."

_Isn't it always?_ John thinks, somewhat annoyed, but, in the sense of friendship and on behoof of a peaceful afternoon, refrains from commenting out loud. He sniffs the cup as second time and decides to give Sherlock another chance. It was just this once already quite some time ago, at Baskerville. Well, and all the other times. John takes a sip.

_Bloody hell._

"Sherlock." He forces himself to stay calm. "What am I drinking? This is not tea, is it? Please, tell me it's not a drug or some sort of narcotic. It tastes like nothing at all." He sends himself a memo to not – mind you, not _ever _– drink anything the detective brings him again. _Ever_.

"Oh, jolly good. So you taste it too?" Sherlock seems pleased. Never a good sign.

"I taste absolutely nothing. What is it?"

"That is exactly the point. I'm testing a substance that reduces a persons' sense of taste considerably. Two drops of it into my cup, two in yours. I was just wondering if I tasted a faint trace of bitterness on the back of my tongue, so it was a good idea to test it on you too. One test subject is hardly enough to collect sound data."

John stares into the cup, horrified, and sets it down on the table gently. After all, you never know with Sherlock, it might as well have an explosive side effect.

"You numbed my sense of taste? Sherlock I have dinner reservations for Jenny and me at that insanely expensive French place in – oh – two and a half hours. It took me forever to get a table there. Please tell me my taste will have returned by then. The starters already cost half my monthly income." It's going to be one of those nights, John feels. One of those nights he goes to bed, thinking about painful ways to pay Sherlock back for his latest cruelty in the name of science. God, how he hates him sometimes.

"You'd do better to cancel that, then." Sherlock says casually. "But you should be fine in four to six weeks."

**+1. Stubborn Love**

As they lean back into the comfortable seats of the cab, watching the golden evening sun kiss Londons rooftops passionately until they emit a glaring light, John thinks about how much he loves these moments. The residual thrill of an exciting case solved successfully still in their veins, the joy at the prospect of food and showers and hours and hours of peaceful sleep ahead of them appeal even to Sherlock, although he would never admit to it, and make these moments together so peaceful, so calm, so valuable.

After Sherlocks last snarky remark to Anderson, there is still a wide grin on the faces of both men. As he glances over to John out of the corner of his eye, the detectives smirk transforms into a gentle smile. One of his rare, genuine smiles that make him look more and less human than usual, both at the same time. More so, because, contrary to what the detective likes to make people believe, not even he can prevent human emotions form sneaking into his heart from time to time. Less, because it contorts his usually so cool, controlled features to an almost ethereal beauty. John loves these smiles. They are precious and beautiful and _intimate_.

They almost make up for all the times the detective vexes him with his quirky behavior.

"Could you drop us off at the Italian Place in Miller Street?" Sherlock asks the cabbie on hearing Johns stomach give a noisy rumble.

No, he does not _hate _Sherlock Holmes, despite all the times he might be convinced he does. He may hate him at times, but he never _hates_ him in the literal sense of the word. Besides, what is hate if not a very close companion of a fierce, unreasonable love? Love and hate are certainly not opposites. In fact, they lie so closely that sometimes, in situations of extreme emotionality, they can get confused all too easily. Eventually, though, love is the stronger of the two. It is persistent. It is stubborn. Just as stubborn as Sherlock himself, John muses, and chuckles lowly to himself at the thought.

"Hm?" Sherlock raises an amused eyebrow.

"Oh, just thinking about the way you punched that fake priests nose in. That was quite a move." John lies. The detective does already know more of his thoughts he would ever share with anyone else. No need for him to know _all of them_.

They share another grin.

"Well," says Sherlock and turns away to look out of the window. John can only see the ruffled curls on the detectives' brilliant head. "He was making an effort to hurt you with that billiard cue and I was starting to feel a little possessive. I want to keep the privilege of putting you into the hospital all to myself, I think."

John grin widens as he feels his ears turning hot. Definitely not hate, no. The other thing is much more likely. Yes, it's a _stubborn_ love.


	2. Hearts a Mess

**Disclaimer:** I don't even own the title, sadly. :-D

**Note: **This is just a little something I wanted to get out of my head. Nothing special (I think the idea of John having a special place in Sherlocks mind palace has been done to death but – Hey, I want my go! ) but hope you enjoy (Beware the fluff). If you do so (or don't) then leave a review (anyway), please.

Inspired by Sherlocks eccentric mind palace fumblings in "The Hounds of Baskerville" and by the song "Hearts a Mess" by Goyte.

**Hearts a Mess**

Sherlock Holmes has a number of quirks and spleens and annoying habits. He has, in Johns humble opinion at least, also a few rather adorable little tics and foibles. Whether the detectives mind palace belongs to the first group or the latter, John has, after all those years, after all the cases, after all the life threatening danger and after all the quiet evenings, not as yet been able to decide.

Sometimes Sherlocks retreats to his mind palace present John with blissfully quiet moments of peace, in which no one is shooting at walls, blowing up chemicals in the kitchen or shouting out vicious rants on the dullness and obnoxiousness of days without crimes and murder. Other times, they bring on days and days of brooding silence in which Sherlock does not deign to utter even one word to John or open his eyes to acknowledge his existence at all.

Of one thing, though, John is actually quite sure. He _does _like the funny, little movements the detectives sometimes makes when especially wrapped up in the work on his mind palace that must be more of a fairy tale like castle of endless proportions, considering the time he spends in it. A tiny flick of his wrist here, a nudge with a palm – It sometimes reminds John of watching a conductor guiding an orchestra or rather of watching some kind of future robotic life form who gets the display of his smart phone projected directly on his retina for no one but him to see.

John likes to watch Sherlock when he "conducts", looking at the same time completely serious and focused, and, to John, who enjoys that for one the detective is _not_ noticing him watching, just a little silly and endearing and _amazing_. It makes John smile, then wonder why the fuck he is smiling like an idiot and then throw his heterosexuality-threatening doubts about smiling out of the window and just enjoy the view (smiling, of course).

John prides himself with a thorough knowledge of every little movement and gesture. Sherlock is not the only observant person on the planet, after all. He knows the grander gestures are for opening doors to whole thematically organized rooms, the smaller ones retrieve specific information, stored away in drawers, boxes, cupboards and so on… At least he thinks that that's what the gestures mean after thorough research about memory technique on Wikipedia. Thank god for the internet. Without it, John would not even have the possibility to surprise Sherlock with (more or less) profound knowledge on case-relevant topics as seldom as he does now. The detective would think him a complete idiot – well, _more _so.

Lately, John has noticed a new gesture in Sherlocks wide repertoire of graceful gesticulation, which is nothing special, it happens every now and then. Old, superfluous data may get deleted but at the rate at which Sherlock takes new information in he is bound to expand from time to time. What first spikes Johns interest is not so much the addition of a room to the palace itself – no, it is the _place_ that Sherlock seems to have chosen to position the new room. What is in it, John doesn't know. But whenever Sherlock is using his hands to seek it out, he lets his hand sink from his face slowly then lets his palm hover briefly over his _heart_ before pulling it up again.

_Interesting,_ John thinks.

Over the past moths he has tried to gather information as to the contents of this new addition to the mind palace conducting routine, without doing the obvious thing and just ask Sherlock about it. Should, as John suspects, the gesture really mean that Sherlock is keeping certain data in his _heart _rather than his _head_ the voluntarily and quite deliberately reserved detective would never, ever admit to it.

It figures, John supposes, that Sherlock always seems a little testy, pulling a wry face that seems to display a considerable amount of repulsion, when he works on this particular part of his palace. If John has had doubts about the meaning of this new gesture in the beginning (he is not quite sure - Wikipedia wasn't helpful on this - how the location of the rooms in the palace and the gestures are connected. In the beginning he thought it might be nothing more than a coincidence that the movement seems to drag something up from the heart region), he feels somewhat verified in his assumptions as soon as he notices the malice with which Sherlock appears to be handling this part of the information at his disposal. It looks like an unwanted but necessary task. And he has been dealing with it increasingly often over the past few weeks. _Even more interesting_.

It is one night, one of the quiet, calm nights they so rarely spend together in front of the telly, sharing a pizza and a bottle of wine, that John decides to ask. Somewhere between the third and the fourth rerun episode of an annoying sitcom, Sherlock has sloped off into his own head, leaving John to type on his laptop lazily. He does not have to wait long for the gesture to appear. _Now or never_.

"What's that then?"

The detective freezes in mid movement one hand raised in front of his eyes, pushing some invisible drawer of information closed, the other hovering over his chest, the place where his heart must be beating steadily. His eyes snap open, _piercing, dangerous._

It borders on a wonder that he has bothered to react in the first place, that Johns' voice has somehow managed to actually push through to whatever faraway place Sherlocks mind palace is located. Now he looks a little like a crashed PC – no signal.

To indicate what John means with his question, he mimics Sherlocks gesture. Hand over the heart, then, palm facing upwards, pulling it towards his face and stretching his fingers like in the process of increasing a picture on a smart phone.

"That's new." He comments.

"I'm cleaning up." There is a moment of silence as Sherlock slowly raises his hands and lets them rest on his temples, maybe shutting down his mind palace in order to communicate with John without letting any of the retrieved information slip away.

"Is it dirty then?" John smiles slightly amused. The whole concept of memory techniques by imagining places is something he doesn't quite get the hang of. It regularly infuriates Sherlock when John says something that shows how little he knows about the workings of the detectives brilliant mind and sometimes John enjoys teasing that nonchalant, bored expression off the detectives face just a little too much. Of course, the suggestive note of "dirty" will be entirely lost on him.

The strong reaction he gets from Sherlock surprises him, however. With an enraged gesture the tall man buries his hand in his thick curls roughly.

"It's actually all your fault, really – that it's all so _messy_." He complains, a frantic expression on his face.

"What, your heart is?"

Sherlocks head snaps up and his eyes fix John with a stare that looks almost horrified for the fraction of a second then gets transcribed with utter indignation.

"What does my heart have to do with anything?"

_Got you there_, John thinks, amused. The testiness in the detectives' voice has given him away. He is afraid John might have made the connection.

"Well," John shrugs innocently. "I just noticed that the movement comes from your heart. Like you've stored the respective information away in your heart and are pulling it up from there into your head when you need it."

There is a small silence in which Sherlock stares at him, a carefully put on disdain for the absolute silliness of John words on his face. Then:

"Don't be ridiculous, John. That would be awfully dull and _sentimental_ of me. The gestures just help me concentrate. They stand in no relation to the actual location of information in my mind palace. I just do it … without noticing."

John snorts. As if _anything ever_ escapes Sherlock Holmes notice. He knows it himself, how lame this vindication sounds, and John knows he has to tread lightly now. There might be a thick, hard shell of nonchalance and rudeness wrapped around it, but John has managed to peer under there on a small number of occasions and found, to his delight, that the inside is soft and vulnerable – maybe even more so than with people who appear a good deal less detached. John knows that the way Sherlock acts is really who he is – he does not care an iota for most people. Only John is not most people. He is one of the detectives few weak spots. It is a heartwarming, dizzying, magnificent feeling to know that and also horribly frightening.

Instead of saying anything to vex the detective further, John opts for leaning back comfortably in his chair and smiling to himself.

"O.K., sorry." He says casually. "Just wondering."

"Well, I can't expect you to know about these things, do I?" Sherlock snaps and takes a few more moments before he, too, settles back into a more relaxed position, closes his eyes and retreats into his thoughts. It is not half a minute later that he does it again. Quickly and sloppily, as if hoping to manage to avoid Johns noticing. John does notice. What he also notices is that his flat mates usually quite normal coloured ears have turned an alarming shade of red. Obviously he has caught Sherlock out of his comfort zone. A rare challenge to be met indeed and a delicious little victory. He decides to let it go for today.

It is not before they have successfully finished a case about a week later that John feels the urge to bring it up again. As usual after the thrill of a tricky and challenging case, Sherlock is in one of his better moods, having devoured a plate of pasta at Angelos earlier and slumped down on the couch exhaustedly as soon as they entered their flat. He has been in a pleasantly untypical talkative mood all evening. Earlier that night at the restaurant, John has also spied Sherlock doing the heart-to-head-thing again when John had gone to the loo and Sherlock must have believed himself to be unobserved. The sight newly lit his interest.

"So, have you managed to clean up the mess?" he asks, non-committal. No need to specify. He'll know. Sherlock will know exactly what he is talking about. The loitering pile of limbs on the couch gives a displeased grunt in the intent of expressing his disinterest in talking about this particular subject.

"I'm just asking because it really seemed to bother you the other day. You seemed fine during the case, though. No trouble with, you know, consulting your mental database. You looked as though everything was in perfect order again." John makes a point of seeming as mildly interested as possible.

On the couch, Sherlocks sits up slowly, grabbing one of the post-case-low-blood-sugar-level-emergency-cookies John always has the presence of mind to put there should they return home from a day-long chase around town without having dinner first, and shoves it into his mouth.

"No, actually." He mumbles through gritted teeth. "Still too messy. Not the important bits, of course, but everything I've stashed away in my hea…" he trails off in mid sentence, looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. John feels his lips stretch into a grin, despite himself. Awkward silence - full of grinning and chewing and a little embarrassed sulking on Sherlocks part.

"I suppose I will just have to content myself with the knowledge that _these things_ simply _cannot_ be put into any kind of logical order."

The detective sighs, grudgingly, in sullen defeat and finality and gets up. _That's right, retreat in shame! I, John Watson, figured you out!_ He can't help but feel more than a little smug as he gives the detective an assenting shrug with a _Well-what-can-be-done?_-expression on his face.

"I have managed to get used to other annoying alterations from my former life since we've met. All in All, the disadvantages and the benefits about even out, I suppose. Your army training and the shortness of your legs do come in rather handy from time to time. I shall have to settle for having a bit of a mess in…" he hesitates and throws John a sideways glance through narrowed eyes "…well, in certain areas. Good night, John."

And with a dramatic flick of his dressing gown he is out of the room, leaving John in the silence of the flat.

Yes, Sherlock definitely has his quirks and idiosyncracies and John is still not sure if the mind palace is an altogether lovable or rather an unpleasant one. He is now, however, more sure than ever that he likes the little gestures. In fact, he likes them so much that he is willing to ignore that last insulting part Sherlock uttered. He is too busy with the grinning again (_Oh, do shut up about whether this should worry you and your masculinity, John_) at the thought that he is the reason that Sherlocks thoughts appear to be in disarray. It is his person, his existence, his company, his friendship, his – whatever – it is the reason that Sherlocks heart's a mess and that knowledge just makes John Watson grin.


End file.
